


Nothing to Fear

by RedHorse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Consent Issues, M/M, Slavery, dark themes, implied sex stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse
Summary: Prompt: Voldemort is the rich and famous scientist and inventor who found a way to create human-like creatures from nothing. His "humans" are used as slaves, for the worst jobs in society - they don't mind. They don't have feelings or a consciousness.Except that one does.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 30
Kudos: 311
Collections: Flashing into the New Year





	Nothing to Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/pseuds/Miraculous) in the [flashing_into_the_new_year](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/flashing_into_the_new_year) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Written at chaos speeds, pardon the mistakes! xoxo to miraculous
> 
> Prompt: Voldemort is the rich and famous scientist and inventor who found a way to create human-like creatures from nothing. His "humans" are used as slaves, for the worst jobs in society - they don't mind. They don't have feelings or a consciousness.
> 
> Except….one boy does. He acts and shows emotions exactly like a real human, shows definite signs of independent thought and consciousness - and a conscience. A conscience almost more well-developed than you'd see in most humans. 
> 
> Voldemort needs this…. mistake… gone, before anyone takes notice

“So,” Dolohov asked, following Voldemort into the compound at a respectful distance, “you have the new one ready? And so soon?”

Lord Voldemort nodded. “Only a prototype, untested. He spawns today, and I thought you’d enjoy seeing it, as you contributed to the original design.”

“Yes,” Dolohov breathed, his eyes bright. “Thank you, my Lord.”

He was right to be grateful. To stand in the engine of Lord Voldemort’s creation and watch a new specimen take form—there was no higher honor in the universe.

At the end of the main hallway in the compound stood the yawning hatch, an artifact of the original purpose of the compound as a testing facility for space craft. One of the creatures, the early, white-blond generation Lord Voldemort had patterned after Abraxas with deliberate irony, pressed a panel to open the doors then bowed deeply in Lord Voldemort’s direction.

Dolohov himself paused misstep to touch the shiny silver hair of the creature’s bent head.

“An A1,” he said, voice an octave lower than before. “I’ve always been curious.”

Lord Voldemort touched his still-lustrous hair, a habit when he was exasperated, but Dolohov was too distracted to notice.

“Have him then,” he snapped. “Satisfy your  _ curiosity _ at your leisure. But first—it’s nearly the hour, if you’ll recall while we’re here…?”

Dolohov looked at Lord Voldemort with startled delight. “Thank you, my Lord! Such a generous gift.”

The A1s were only suitable for the simplest of tasks, but judging by the look in his eye Dolohov would only require the A1 hold still with its legs and mouth open, and surely it would manage that.

The B7s were the first to independently problem solve. The F4s were the first to teach themselves new skills by observation. The G series were a disaster, of course, but they’d all been euthanized, clearing the path for the next series. A new generation; a fresh start; the culmination of all Lord Voldemort had imagined when he’d first built the Chamber.

“Stay here, boy,” Dolohov told the A1, looking into his empty grey eyes as he patted his cheek. “I’ll be back for you when we finish inside.”

The A1 moved to wait against the wall, out of the way. Lord Voldemort preceded Dolohov into the Chamber and the doors hushed closed, leaving them in the vast space full of curling silver fog and wet heat.

“Oh,” said Dolohov, and Lord Voldemort thought with satisfaction that at least he wasn’t thinking of the A1 any longer. His attention, his awe, was properly absorbed by the Chamber.

“But where is the mechanism?” Dolohov craned his head to study the walls and ceiling as they drifted in and out of visibility through the rolling fog. “I expected...moving parts.”

“Yes. It is beyond what any mind could conceive of, save mine.”

“Of course.”

“The Chamber is the mechanism. The moving parts are smaller than you can perceive. Here, we’re near.”

The fog was thicker here, indicating the center of the Chamber. Lord Voldemort’s timekeeper buzzed in the pocket of his loose robe garment, marking the hour, and the fog began to dissipate from this point of coalescence toward the outer walls, revealing the figure of a boy naked on the silver floor.

He lay curled on his side. His hair was dark. None of the other series resembled him, which made Lord Voldemort wonder what forgotten corner of his imagination the Chamber had seized upon for inspiration when it chose this body.

Dolohov bent nearer. “Small,” he decided, straightening up, a frown on his face almost like he was disappointed. Righteous indignation flared in Lord Voldemort but he dismissed the brief urge to carve out Dolohov’s heart for daring to doubt the sufficiency of what Lord Voldemort and the Chamber had wrought.

The boy opened his eyes and rose on one elbow. He wasn’t as tall as the leggy A1s nor as muscular as the D1s but he looked strong for his height, and got to his feet with the unconscious ease of a natural athlete. The eyes that rose uncertainly to Lord Voldemort’s were a vivid green.

“My Lord,” he said quietly, then glanced at Dolohov—almost with trepidation? But that must be a trick of the light—and added, “Sir.”

“Hello, H1,” said Lord Voldemort, taking in the boy from every angle. “Welcome to existence. Let us see you.” He gently turned the boy around by the shoulder, and obediently, the H1 pivoted in place on his bare feet. His skin was faintly bronze, the sort of color that would deepen almost instantly if he spent time in the sun.

“He is well made,” Dolohov said, looking more interested now that the boy was animate. Lord Voldemort recalled his earlier irritation, but set it aside. He couldn’t expect ordinary men to perceive what he, Lord Voldemort, could discern in an instant, and Dolohov’s appreciation seemed to be increasing the more he observed the creature.

“Yes,” Lord Voldemort agreed, as the H1 completed his turn and faced the two men, his arms at his sides. Lord Voldemort moved his hand from the boy’s shoulder and place it beneath his chin. “He is perfect.” 

This time Lord Voldemort knew his eyes didn’t deceive him when he saw the pearly-pink points of color on the H1’s face: a blush.

*

When the H1 was stored, Lord Voldemort showed Dolohov out as quickly as possible without revealing his anxiety. Then he went to his personal rooms and paced. 

The Ministry of Technology was watching him closely ever since they’d formed their suspicions about the G series and they would descend like skyrats scenting an oil spill if they got wind of a fault in the H series. The boy was  _ too _ human,  _ too _ reactive. It couldn’t be a mere illusion, a calibrated response designed merely to simulate, as Lord Voldemort had intended.

No one but Lord Voldemort could observe him. Even to have those closest to Lord Voldemort engage in the standard tests would be too risky. He should eliminate the threat the boy posed immediately, and in the simplest way: snap his neck and toss the body in the next in the row of disposal barrels.

He’d done it with the G series; he hadn’t hesitated.

Swiftly he made his way to the small and unadorned chamber where he’d left the H1. The walls were transparent from the outside, but from the H1s perspective would be smooth, seamless and opaque. Instead of contented in the silent empty space the way other series behaved when stored, the H1 was visibly nervous. Claustrophobic. Lord Voldemort’s heart raced, in angry frustration, yes, but also with something stronger—a very basic hunger. He paused with his hand on the panel, then steeled himself and went in.

“My Lord,” exclaimed the H1, eyes wide and brilliant with relief. “You’re back.” He crowded shivering into the circle of warmth nearer Lord Voldemort’s body. He dared to reach up and clutch Lord Voldemort’s robes. 

Lord Voldemort’s worst fears were confirmed, and his hands slipped gently into position around the vulnerable throat, feeling a thrum of energy ripple through his entire body at the pleasant heat of that bare skin.

He tightened his grip and the boy leaned nearer, trusting him implicitly, as he was made. Lord Voldemort prepared himself for the backward step for leverage, the fatal jerk—

But he didn’t kill the boy. His H1. Not yet. He gentled his touch instead and drew the boy closer, sliding his hands down the bare back, its curves so pleasant under his palms.

“Yes, I’m here,” he murmured soothingly. “There is nothing to fear.”

  
  



End file.
